


live through this (and you won’t look back)

by astrid (alharper)



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Gen, I don’t think any major warnings apply but depends on if u count vampirism as character death, M/M, Major Character Undeath, Vampires, do i care? also no!, were they at ICC? No!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-07-06 04:48:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15878871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alharper/pseuds/astrid
Summary: He isn't sure who or what he is, but he knows that he was not supposed to have woken alone.





	live through this (and you won’t look back)

**Author's Note:**

> but what if the three of them WERE in ICC, and also Rommath got turned into a VAMPIRE, and they snap decided they couldn’t just LEAVE him there
> 
> I uh, play alliance, so please let me know if anything is too egregious after the central premise is on the table

He isn't sure who or what he is, but he knows that he was not supposed to have woken alone.

When he opens his eyes, he is slumped half-upright against the wall in a wide, high corridor, vast and empty, nothing but cold in the air. His footsteps, awkward and coltish, echo in great, ringing chimes.

He passes three rooms, velvety red and black boltholes full of long, plush couches and enormous four-posted beds, filmy fabrics and the warm light of candles. He's drawn into them briefly, but the emptiness claws at him, keeps him searching.

The fourth one is full of bodies.

They're the wrong sort of cold, with gaping wounds torn into many of them, scorch-marks on bodies and walls. One of them, a tall man with great, leathery black wings, lays slumped against the back of one of those huge couches, one wing thrown forward and over like an awkward blanket. They could be asleep, if you ignore the arrow through one eye, and the gnawing emptiness in his stomach is so great that he does.

Whatever they are, he is one of them, and grief chokes him. This should have been his family, should have been the hands to feed and teach him, but every last one of them is dreadful and still. He doesn't know which of them he looks like, and hopes it's all of them, that he might carry each and every one with him, despite never knowing them.

He huddles small beside the tall, dead figure, folds up beneath the stretch of one wing and the cold, still form beside him is not what he needs, but it is much closer. He tries to think, to remember where he is, who, but all he can grab is a vague impression of cold, and fear, and the weight of a terrible decision, suddenly relieved.

He's confused, and his jaw aches. Rational thought keeps sliding away when he tries to pin it down, subsumed to the pounding demand to find something to devour, and do it in a cool pile of others like himself.

A strange, glowing ribbon of consciousness sits at the back of his mind and it doesn’t feel like _others_ but he reaches for it, desperate for explanation, for focus.

He's met by a chaotic snarl of fearful and angry minds, loud and shouting and deep in the heart of it a terrifyingly sharp diamond, laying down commands with a finality and hardness that forces shape on those unable to form it themselves.

It brushes against him and he cowers, whines into the cold shoulder beneath him, mindlessly fearful of that immensity.

He doesn't reach for it again.

There is nothing to devour here, only emptiness, so he retreats within himself to wait. Someone will come for him. He isn't meant to be alone.

##

Somewhere between sleep and death, he abides, until instinctive focus bursts forth to latch on to sound and movement.

Two blonde figures working in silence, filthy and tired enter his den without permission or consideration. They work over the bodies of his kith with ruthless efficiency borne out of long practice.

Something about them is arresting. He's not close enough to feel it but he knows they will be warm, every part of them a steady pulse beneath his hands. Their skin is thin and fine, easy to pull back, and he emerges in absolute silence to slide across the floor, pull himself into a careful arch ready to jump, ready to catch, to eat but also to keep and curl around them.

But they are unexpectedly clever, shockingly fast, arrows and knives bristling from their fingers though he'd not made a whisper and they are supposed to be _prey_.

The large one, rugged and sure, marks of survival heavy upon him, croaks “Rommath?” with a raw and terrible grief deeper even than his own and it brings him up short.

Something is desperate beneath the cold, lizard pragmatism that drives him, screaming below his need to feed, to exist, to find and tie strong necks bent before him. He is alone, alone and not made for it, no nest to cradle him in his new birth but whatever he might make for himself. It peeks out for just a moment, some feeling rips through him and forces out “Theron, _kill_ it” past lips frozen in a rictus snarl.

He dives, laser-focused and fast but they're faster, and a firm hand catches him up by the throat. He screams, feral and piercing, screams for nestmates and elders he does not have, for help that will not come.

The roiling mess of that awful, bottomless need left for hours unattended has made him weak, and when that implacable hand pushes him to his knees, he keeps falling.

##

He's lost for a while, lost to everything, because when awareness begins to filter back in he's lying prostrate and his mouth is full of hot blood.

“I swear on Kael’s damp fucking trousers if this doesn't work I'm going to kick your ass back to Quel’thalas,” someone is hissing, and the desire to snap something back is lost to the wonder of the taste in his mouth.

It tastes like blood always has, but the way it makes him _feel_ , oh - the source begins to move and he catches it with iron hands, pulls it back and sinks teeth into it, new and sharp.

A startled yell, but he pays it no attention, fixated entirely on taking in more liquid to pour on the fire that burns in his belly, to fill the gaping wound within him, only ever so slightly faster than it is emptying.

Strong arms wrap around his chest and true awareness begins to creep in - he's crouched over the arm of someone who kneels in front of him, green eyes wide and familiar. He sucks, fills his mouth with hot, bright blood again before hard fingers catch at his lower jaw, disengaging him from his meal, and he's forced to swallow quickly or risk losing it to the floor. The man kneeling in front of him tries to pull back but he tightens his grip.

“Don't leave,” he rasps, “we have time yet.”

“Let him go, Rommath,” a different voice says against his ear, “we'll get you more, but I'll not have my right hand eat my left. It's unseemly.”

The last as a weak tease, and recognition filters into his mind like sunlight through heavy canopy, lends form to the familiarity that butts at the edges of his consciousness looking at those wide, grieving eyes.

“Brightwing?”

Rommath lets go of his arm and Halduron withdraws it quickly, watching for his reaction as he walks backwards on his knees, just out of reach.

There will be ugly bruising all around his wrist, and halfway down his forearm, painted an ugly red from the force of his fingers. The deep purple and maroon of damage that didn't quite manage to break skin already blooms, as well as two very deep punctures that did, still bleeding. The rough circle is a ragged, awful frame for a neat, deep little cut in the centre, made most likely by Halduron himself, positioned to bleed while avoiding any troubling damage to his muscular forearm.

He flexes his fingers carefully, turning his arm in to cradle against his body, hand raised above his heart.

“Brightwing, I -”

He stops. His voice has a strange timbre to it - rough, raw, and beneath that a terrible scraping sort of noise, half-heard.

“Are you with us?” the voice rumbles against his back - he's being held quite firmly, though his arms are free, hot bands across his stomach and chest.

He tries to turn, but it's difficult with the way he's crouching, legs caught at a strange angle, so he relaxes them.

He doesn't slide to the floor, though, or gain any of the necessary slack to turn. The stranger’s grip on him readjusts quickly, holding him facing outward.

“None of that,” it tells him, and then with a rough grunt, Rommath is pulled to his feet.

He whines, and it's a high-pitched, shrieking noise, grips the arms around him. He tips his head back and gets a glimpse of lank hair, long and white-gold where it isn't matted by dirt or blood. Rommath’s nose touches the line of his captor’s jaw, near his jugular, and fangs drop heavy into his mouth. He stretches back to fasten on his neck - he can almost hear the rush of it, blood pulsing so close to the surface, nothing but thin, thin skin that his aching fangs can pare through with ease.

But before he can get further than the tantalizing brush of teeth against skin, one of those strong arms transfers to wrap all the way around his neck, elbow beneath his jaw, hand careful but implacable against his skull. The arm remaining across his chest pins Rommath’s arms so he has them only below the elbow, shoulders largely immobile.

His mouth is filled with saliva. He swallows it.

“How are we going to get him home?” Halduron asks, nominally ignoring him, although his eyes keep flickering back. Rommath bares his teeth at him. There’s something familiar about the antagonism that he wants to chase, a flash of personality and self that he has only the slipperiest hold on over the top of a monstrous, defining need.

“There's a room in the inner spire without windows - it’s all superseded treaties and dust at the moment and will keep him well enough for now, until more permanent accommodations can be made.”

The voice is familiar, pleasant even without the rumble of it passing through him from the chest against his back. White-gold hair falling clean as a waterfall, a jovial attitude concealing genuine anger in the hard lines of a square jaw, those same lines softened when murmuring tired thanks late in the evening.

“Theron?”

“I'm right here, Rommath.”

“Is this,” he tightens his hands around Lor’themar’s arm at his throat, “really necessary?” Halduron snorts, but says nothing.

“Are you in control of yourself?” Lor’themar asks him, “because a moment ago you were primed to rip my throat out.” Rommath is about to reply with something cutting when a drop makes its way free and falls from Halduron’s elbow.

It hits the floor, and the liquid quivers for a moment before it begins its slow seep into the porous stone.

“No,” he admits, and he chokes on it. “I would take you apart, and revel in it.”

“We'll work something out,” Lor’themar tells him, and he's so fucking optimistic - but a great deal of the time, he's been right, these last few years. So Rommath tries to let himself believe him.

“It seems to make me more myself. Feeding.” He says it delicately, in place of _blood_ , but there’s nothing delicate about the gnawing ache in him, worse than the addictive call of arcane and fel had ever hoped to be.

“You've taken quite a bit from Halduron already,” he’s told, “do you think you'll last an hour? If we're both injured it will be harder to mask, and I would have us safely in Quel’thalas before we work to get you all you need.”

“What if I need more than you can provide?” he grinds out, and Halduron shrugs.

“Then we will put you down.”

“You won’t,” Lor’themar says sharply. “We will find out what you need and we will provide it. I won’t lose anyone else to this twice-forsaken place than has already been taken.”

Rommath thinks perhaps he has already been lost in here. He doesn’t feel cold, but knows he did before, and the heat that Lor’themar seeps into him is telling. Their determination may carry him from here, but he won't be returning home. He already died in these icy halls; his having woken again will not change it.

He also doesn't know how long he’ll last, but is already aware it will be well less than an hour. Something feral is seeping back into the edges of him already, eroding what rationality he has managed to eke out.

He presses himself back against Lor’themar. The contact isn't as direct as it could be - he's covered in leather armor still, and Rommath’s robes are thick and fur lined - tips his head back as far as he can to catch his eye.

He looks worn, balanced on the knife-edge of true exhaustion.

“Let me help you,” he croons, and the rough underlay to his voice smooths out into a gentle call, a sweet yearning. Lor’themar’s grip on him relaxes for just a moment in surprise, and he tightens it again immediately but that moment was all he needed to turn in his arms and sink long fangs into that steady, strong pulse.

He moans when its contents flows across his tongue, hot and vital, and Lor’themar swears. “No, let him be, the damage is done,” he says to Halduron above him, though raggedly. The arm around his back becomes curiously gentle, and the one that was about his neck moves to cradle the back of his head, tangling through his hair.

“It's fine,” Lor’themar says. He's not sure if it’s in reply to something, can barely hear over the rush of Lor’themar’s heartbeat. He sounds distant, off, and Rommath is pressed to him so tightly he can feel Lor’themar slowly hardening against his hip.

That also seems wrong, though some distant instinct within him is set to purring, possessive and interested.

Strong hands dig into his jaw, and a finger yanks at the corner of his mouth to break suction.

“I'd appreciate it if you'd just let go so I don't take half his neck with you, you goddamn leech,” Halduron hisses, and his fingers hook against his teeth and pull back, trying to disengage his fangs.

Rommath whines, but even this taste, briefer than he wants, served to bring him that little bit more back to himself. No sooner does he think he should stop then a strange, passing pressure in his gums as his fangs retract. The compulsion to lap at the wound is so great it doesn't even occur to him to try to resist it, straining against Halduron’s grasp long enough to get his mouth back over it for just a moment. When he pulls back the puncture wounds are gone, wiped away by his tongue.

He bats irritably at Halduron’s grasping attempts to pull him away. “Peace, you great irritant, I am in command of my faculties.”

“Excuse me if I don't believe it!” he snipes, but backs down when Rommath straightens and tries to put some distance between himself and Lor’themar.

It's frankly somewhat mortifying - Rommath had plastered himself tightly against the front of Lor’themar’s body, clasped arms about him as if in the embrace of a lover long-separated, and apparently the blood that he had devoured kick-started more than just his conscious faculties. Lor’themar was not the only one who had stirred in response to the contact.

Lor’themar releases his head when Rommath brushes his hand away, but the arm around his waist stays firm. “Your eyes are so dark,” Lor’themar tells him, unfocused and dreamy. This time, it's Rommath that swears, high and sharp.

“What did you do to him?” Halduron asks, alarmed, “do you have some kind of thrall magic now?”

Rommath snarls back “I’m certain I don't know!” and his voice reverberates with that awful scrape again.

That seems to do the trick - Lor’themar rears back, claps a hand over his neck, now healed, and releases Rommath so suddenly he stumbles back a step.

“We're out of time,” Halduron tells him, “so save your confusion for later.” Lor’themar nods sharply.

“He won't pass even a cursory inspection with those eyes,” he says, and Halduron makes a surprised like ‘oh’, peering at his face.

Rommath conjures a looking glass, taking a brief moment to be thankful that arcane arts respond to him just as easily as they ever have, and looks for himself.

A stranger stares back at him. His hair seems even darker than usual, deep midnight against skin now deathly pale, the mildest tinge of blue beneath it where before he had the healthy golden undertone of most elves. His eyes glow an impossible black, obsidian and fathomless.

It's striking, and he’s right - far, far too noticeable.

“You should leave me here,” he tells them. “We cannot expect Quel’thalas to bear under this.”

“You think too little of them,” Lor’themar tells him brusquely, “I'll have none of it. Keep your eyes closed, we'll be fine.”

“If you insist on carrying out this farce, it is your hand that will be forced to end it. I will not go to that appalling mess that Windrunner had the gall to call a city.” He injects bile into his voice, but ugly fear is what moves his mouth.

Also the ruins of Lordaeron are genuinely disgusting, and he will not have a bar of it. Lor’themar draws his eyebrows down in that way he does when he's becoming genuinely irritated.

“Your duties lay with the sin’dorei. Now stop fussing.”

Lor’themar picks him up without ceremony, and Halduron needles Rommath with tasteless, awful humour for his inability to relax. As though this is some fine prank they are attempting to pull, and not the reality of drawing out his death in a freezing wasteland.

Rommath is tired, too tired to even be properly mortified at being carried in arms like some fainting maiden, and the hunger is distant but beginning to call again. Lor’themar is hot against him, heartbeat steady and strong. His arms around him are surprisingly reassuring, despite knowing that it compromises his ability to defend himself - he's warm, and feels safe. Whatever else has changed, the reassurance of those two states is the same.

For the sake of their ruse his head is tipped against Lor’themar’s chest, his eyes closed, and without any intention of doing so he sleeps, secure in the knowledge he will not wake alone.


End file.
